Treasure Chests
by VelvetRavenWings
Summary: Jack has taken a prisoner onboard, and she is anything but pleased. She hates him. He loves teasing her. As Jack sets off for fresh adventures, unwilling captive in tow, they both discover that sometimes the greatest treasure doesn't come in a chest.


This may seem a bit confusing at first, but hopefully it'll make sense as the story progresses.

Disclaimer: I don't own nothing except for Susanna Reed.

Chapter One:

How on Earth did I find my way here? How could I have been so misfortunate to have gotten stuck on this ship? I ponder my miserable life lazily, as I have done for many mornings before, feeling the salty breeze across my face that did nothing to cool my hot temper. In truth, my life would not be so horrible were it not for one man…

"Mornin' sunshine!" A rough voice exclaims at some distance behind me. And yes, it is THAT man which makes my unwillful existence on this godforsaken boat so horrible. I choose to ignore his sarcastic greeting, as I have for many weeks, and he chooses to come up and attempt to feel me up, as he has for many weeks. I then slap him in the face as I have for many weeks. He asks me why I did that, and I tell him the same thing I always do.

It has become a sort of horrible sadistic morning ritual of ours to follow. He continues to bother me until I finally say something along the lines of "Fuck off!" Two very useful words I learned in the first days of my arrival, after I got over my shock of hearing them spoken. Anyway, after I speak, he tends to burst into laughter, give me a friendly slap on the back and walk off, continuing to laugh for a long time. All during this time I am trying hard not to blush and feel embarrassed.

I see no reason why I should feel embarrassed about my accent. Honestly, it's like he's never heard someone with a Southern accent speak. It's not like it's that strong, either! I was born in the Americas, but was brought back to England when I was ten. So really, my accent lies somewhere between Southern and English. Still he finds the need to mock me for it. And this morning is no different than usual.

"Mornin' sunshine!" the voice repeats again, much closer now. I choose to ignore him and continue staring out the window, willing myself not to speak out loud. He approaches and I can feel his body heat long before he touches me. He wraps his large rough hands around my waist and starts moving them up. I twist my upper body and deal a nice hard blow to his face.

"Ow, luv. That's not very nice. Wha'dya do 'at fo'?" He whined in that rogue accent of his, the one I'm sure it took him years to perfect. The one that causes most women's panties to drop in a nanosecond. Not me, though. I'm above his charming seduction.

His hands are still resting on my hips and though I try to wiggle out of his grasp, he keeps a strong hold. I content myself with rotating in his arms until we are face to face, giving him my best glare.

It's a glare that, unlike his carefully cultivated speech, came quite naturally the first time we ever conversed. Every time we come in contact, actually, it's been firmly in place. Somehow, it seems to have absolutely no affect on him. If, anything, he thinks I'm flirting. It's really rather frustrating!

The only thing that gives me minute pleasure is when I'm feeling particularly venomous after an encounter with this annoying man and I send my glare in the direction of a crew member.

_They_ cower. Just like they bloody well should.

I put my hands on my waist, just a bit above his hands, and stare him straight in the eye. "You know exactly why I did it, you buffoon. The exact same reason I always do."

"And wha' is tha' reason again, strumpet?"

I growl low in the back of my throat. I hate when he calls me that. I'm not his whore, damn it, and I never will be. "Because, you are a simpering, smarmy, salacious excuse for a pirate who's drunken, witless charm has the sole purpose of amusing and primping your own enormous ego without the slightest care towards the feelings of others." I poke my finger into his chest to emphasize my points.

He pouted at me. "Well, sometimes I amuse other people, too."

"I find that rather difficult to believe."

"Why?"

I just raise an eyebrow as though to ask, "_Are you really asking me a question to which the answer is so obvious?"_

He takes the hand that had been poking him in his own, and the heat from his flesh sears me. I swallow the lump of bile that rises in my throat but I refuse to pull away. If he ever knew how much I really hate him he would never leave me be.

He pulls the hand up and presses a kiss against the smooth skin on the back. I repress my shudder but allow a small grimace to settle on my lips.

"Oh, Nibblet, you know I love t'play as much as the next man but, don' you think i's time we qui' foolin' 'round with word games and got down to the actual foolin' 'round?" He kisses my hand again, that cocky, lopsided grin on his face.

That's when I choose to use those two handy words I learned. "Fuck you!" I wrench my hand away from his lips and punch him in the chest.

He laughs jovially, apparently uninjured by the punch, and moves away, patting me on the back as though we've just shared an incredibly amusing joke. I watch him swagger across the deck, my mouth gaping angrily, as he yells orders to his crew.

I don't know why I get so affected by this interaction, seeing as we have it every morning. Still, somehow he manages to push my buttons and rile me up. I hate it. He knows how much he bothers me and gets great amusement from it, no doubt. I hate that even more.

This morning, however, I am determined to get the last word for once. I gather my skirts in my hands, and rush forward on nimble feet.

By the time I catch up to him, he's already behind the wheel, spinning it lazily and with no sense of urgency. He sees my approach and smirks. "Wan' t'try steerin'?"

I blink. That was unexpected. "Are you actually making an attempt at civility?" I ask while stepping forward and placing my hands on two of the wooden pegs on the wheel.

He moves behind me and puts his hands on the pegs next to mine. I feel his hot breath on my neck and he whispers, "No, I just want'd to see if you like hold'n wood."

When I rotate my head to stare at him questioningly, he grins lecherously and wiggles his eyebrows, leaving me with no doubt as to the implied meaning.

I immediately let go of the wheel and rotate to face him angrily. "Why on Earth do you insist on being so insufferable?"

The grin hasn't left his face. His eyes twinkle with either intoxication or madness—probably some of both—and he leans in until we are nose to nose, our lips almost touching.

"Because, luv," he says in a low husky voice that, because of his proximity, sends vibrations through my lips and nose. His rum-tainted breath washes over my face and the beads in his hair brush against my bare shoulders.

"I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."

End chapter one.

How was that? This is my first Pirates of the Caribbean fanfic so I hope it's not awful. Like I said, this might be a bit confusing right now, but next chappie will clear it up.

Review and I'll bake you (nekkid) Jack-shaped cookies. Yum! (lol)


End file.
